Author: Tiffany Reisz

Suzanne pulled her hands from her face.

“I kissed him.”

A half-truth seemed better than a lie.

“You kissed him?”

She nodded miserably.

“And it doesn’t matter. Because he kissed me back. And I know he wanted me and he didn’t do anything. Just stuck to his vows. He’s a good priest. I wasted his time and my time and your time… It’s pointless. You were right. I shouldn’t have pursued it.”

Patrick shook his head.

“No. You were right. There is something weird about him. There’s no way some stranger would send you an anonymous tip about him if he was the saint everyone says he is.”

“I dug, Patrick. And I can’t find anything. The kids at church love him and trust him. The parents love him and trust him. What else is there? I don’t care if he’s cheating on his taxes as long as he’s never hurt a child. I wanted to believe he was a monster just because he’s a priest. Look.” She pointed at a box on the floor by her desk. “There’s all my notes on him. There’s nothing. He’s a saint.”

With a groan, Patrick got up, grabbed the box and sat back down on the couch. He flipped through her notes.

“Nice to see you made sure to write down how hot he is,” Patrick said, reading her steno pad.

“It’s ungodly how gorgeous he is, Pat. You’d turn gay for this guy.”

“Don’t think so. I like young, buxom redheads only.” He winked at her, and for the first time in six weeks she started to feel human again.

“I’ll try to find you one then.”

Suzanne sat up and stared down at the box of notes. She pulled out a newspaper. “Oh, and look at this. We thought something funky was going on with Father Stearns and Nora Sutherlin? Check this out. That guy look familiar?”

Patrick squinted at the Page Six photograph.

“That’s Nora Sutherlin,” Suzanne supplied. “And that gorgeous male-model clone is—”

“Griffin Fiske.” Patrick shook his head. “Yeah, covered his rampages a time or two. Fucking trust fund babies. They get all the girls.”

“They get Nora Sutherlin apparently. Seems she prefers rich boys over poor priests.”

Patrick took the newspaper and tossed it aside before grabbing her notebook from the box.

“What’s this? ‘Min Søren, Min søn er nu en  far. Jeg er så stolt. Jeg elsker dig altid. Din mor.’”

“I think you just murdered the Danish language.” Suzanne sat up.

“Danish?”

“Yeah, it means, ‘My Søren, my son I am so proud. Your mother.’”

“The priest is Danish?”

“Half Danish, half English. Mother was an au pair for this wealthy family in New Hampshire. The wife had a hysterectomy after baby Elizabeth was born. Daddy raped the pretty blond nanny who then gave him the son he wanted.”

“Jesus…” Patrick breathed. “That’s fucking awful.”

“Yeah. I can’t imagine what that does to someone knowing your father’s a rapist. She must have been an amazing woman to love her son so much considering how he came into the world.”

“Søren…I thought his name was Marcus.”

“It’s both. Marcus is what the dad named him. Søren is what the mom named him. He says only the people closest to him, who know his past, call him Søren.”

“Søren…I guess that’s a good name for a priest. Like Søren Kierkegaard, right? The theologian?”

“I don’t think Kierkegaard was Catholic.”

“You sure?” Patrick grabbed his laptop and opened it. As long as she’d known him, Patrick would never take her word on anything. He’d been a reporter too long and had to fact-check everything. “Yup. You’re right. Søren Aabye Kierkegaard—Lutheran. You two have the same initials, Suzanne Angela Kanter. Anyone ever call you Suzangela?”

“Only Adam until I punched him in the face for it.” Suzanne glanced over Patrick’s shoulder at the screen. Søren…Aabye…Kierkegaard. Why did that look so familiar to her?

She grabbed her steno pad, flipped through a few pages, and found the words Meine andere Geschenk wird nicht in einer  Box passen. AABYE.

My other present will not fit in a box. AABYE.

Aabye.

Suzanne’s eyes bored into the word as if demanding it to tell her what it meant. And it did mean something. She knew it meant something. From Patrick’s computer she turned her gaze to her bookshelf and a book with a bloodred cover written by Nora Sutherlin. In an instant she left the couch and snatched the book off the shelf. There it was, right on the dedication page. The answer had been sitting on her bookshelf the entire time.

Søren’s words from their almost night together rang in her mind.

We are close. She had a nasty run-in with  the law at age fifteen. The judge had me supervise her community service.  Her parents had little to do with her after that. I suppose you could say I  had to become her father.

“Suz?” Patrick asked, turning his face to hers.

“Goddamn you,” Suzanne said to herself. “You were her priest, her father…”

“What?”

“Do you have your car?”

“Yeah, why? What’s wrong?”

“I need it. Don’t wait up. I’ve got a priest I need to crucify.”

“Suzanne, stop right now and tell me what’s going on. It’s almost midnight.”

She grabbed her copy of Nora Sutherlin’s book The Red off the shelf and shoved her feet into her sandals. In the doorway, Suzanne paused only long enough to recite five words to Patrick.

“‘As Always, Beloved, Your Eleanor.’”

17

Michael stared down at the note in his hand and wished somehow he hadn’t found it. Nora had a habit of leaving notes for him in funny places; notes that contained his orders for the day.

Angel, come to my bedroom at ten  o’clock…on your knees. Bring your favorite flogger.

He’d found that note in the shower.

Angel, high noon, the swimming pool. Be  prepared to skinny-dip.

That note she’d taped to his watch while he was napping.

All her notes so far amused him and aroused him. But this latest note flat-out terrified him.

Angel, you aren’t a real kinkster until  you have a threesome. Meet me and Griffin in his bedroom at midnight.

Threesome? With Nora and Griffin? Michael came dangerously close to puking as he walked at a sloth’s pace down the hall. For six weeks now he’d been unable to think of anything or anyone other than Griffin. That night at Sin Tax…it hadn’t been real, he kept telling himself. Griffin didn’t really mean Michael was his property. He’d just said that to scare Jackal off. But then the sketchbook…and the way Griffin looked at him while he held his leather belt taut in his hands…and Michael had wanted to tell him something, had tried to tell him something. He had the words. He wanted to say, “Griffin, I’m falling in love with you, and it’s the scariest fucking thing ever. My dad will kill me dead if he finds out, but right now, I couldn’t care less, because being in bed with you even for one night would be worth dying for.”

But Michael hadn’t said that. All he’d managed to say was, “Thanks for the sketchbook. Good night.”

Thanks again.

Good night.

Good thing he was over his suicidal tendencies. Otherwise he might have slit his wrists again for blowing maybe his only chance with the most amazing person he’d ever met in his life. Because ever since that night, Griffin had pulled back and stopped flirting with him. They’d been buddies since that night. Nothing but friends.

Michael wanted a lot of stuff from Griffin—his heart, his body… His friendship wasn’t even in the top five.

And now Michael had to watch Griffin have sex with Nora, which right now sounded about as sadistic as inviting a starving kid to a buffet and not letting him eat.

He came to the end of the hall and slowly pushed the bedroom door open. At least this thing would happen in Nora’s room, not Griffin’s. It would be fine, he told himself. They’d probably just take turns with Nora. That’s all. No big deal. In the past six weeks he’d done kinky shit he’d barely even let himself dream about. Having sex while someone watched would be a breeze.

All thoughts of breezes evaporated when he saw Nora lounging on her bed in black panties, a black push-up bra and black thigh-high boots. A dozen black candles burned on the bedside tables. And Griffin was nowhere to be seen.

“Come here, Angel.” Nora crooked her finger, beckoning him to the bed. Michael stifled a whimper, took a deep breath and nervously crawled across the sheets to her. Swinging her booted leg out, she hooked it around his waist and playfully kicked him toward her. She wrapped both legs around his back as she held him to her.

“My Angel. Can’t fly away now,” she teased as she took him in her arms. “My scared, shaking Angel.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper and Michael buried his head in the crook of her neck.

“Terrified,” he confessed.

“Want to tell me why?” Nora kissed him on the cheek, the forehead, and he sighed from the simple gesture of affection.

Michael gave a low, rueful laugh.

“Not really.”

Nora nodded as if she understood everything he wasn’t telling her. Knowing Nora, she probably did.

“That bad, huh?” she asked, brushing his hair off his face as he slowly pushed up on his hands and looked down at her.

Their eyes met and in that look he saw knowledge in her gaze, deep knowledge and sympathy.

“Worse.”

“Believe it or not, this might help.” She traced his lips with her fingertips.

“Help what?” Michael inhaled as Griffin’s voice came from behind them. Nora unwrapped her legs from around his back and Michael rolled onto his side and sat up. Griffin stood in the doorway of her bedroom wearing nothing but black silk pajama pants and a slight smile on his sculpted lips.

“Help me get over my wicked need to have two incredibly gorgeous guys in bed with me tonight,” Nora said as she sat back on her hands. Out of the corner of her eye she winked at Michael and something told him that somehow Nora knew about his feelings for Griffin. “Think you can help with that, Mr. Fiske?”

“Mr. Fiske is my dad. But if you want to fuck him, I think you could probably talk him into it.”

Griffin came over to the bed and sat down next to Nora.

Nora stuck out her leg and rested her booted ankle on Griffin’s shoulder. Griffin turned his head and nipped at the leather, a move that made Michael’s stomach knot up from envy and desire.

“What are we doing tonight, boys? I’m open for anything.”

“This was your idea.” Griffin slid his hand from her knee up her inner thigh.

“I have wonderful ideas.” She grinned at them both. “And terrible ideas. And terribly wonderful ideas. Hand me that book in the nightstand, Griff. I just had another terribly wonderful idea.”

Griffin opened the nightstand and handed her a large coffee-table-size book. Nora didn’t even look at it, merely passed it to Michael.

“Let’s let our Angel decide where we’re doing tonight. Go for it,” she ordered, nodding at the book in his hands. “Pick.”

Glancing down at the cover, Michael’s eyes went wide. The Joy of Sex.

“Pick?” he repeated.

“Yup. Any position. Griffin and I will put on a little show for you. But you have to tell us what you want to see. So pick.”

Michael’s hands turned to ice. He could hardly feel the book in his hands.